


Every thing

by moon_hedgehog



Series: sponsored by lana del rey [3]
Category: The Glass Scientists (Webcomic), The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: M/M, Romantic Fluff, Summer Love, poetic things™ the last chapter, tenses change for like 100500 times but i'm not to blame here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 04:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17718119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_hedgehog/pseuds/moon_hedgehog
Summary: people meet, fall in love, break up and repeat;i've dedicated my life to you.





	Every thing

**Author's Note:**

> [(x)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-NTv0CdFCk)  
> it took me half a year to finish this series huh.

It's a hot-hot summer and the air sings from the flapping wings of innocent butterflies scattering golden pollen behind them. Painted in delicate pink, the heavens laughing with rare thunderstorms are now unusually quiet – as if after the wind has calmed down, time itself stopped, giving humming, quivering, winding Earth one-two hours to take a breath. Cicadas fell silent, the engines of vintage cars – scattered over the powdered in sand gas stations – unanimously cut off their roar, and the rustle of naked bushes that have grown into the cracked soil ceased to exist. The only untouched place remains to be a tiny eatery huddled at the edge of a wide highway; it's colored in pink as well, assigning, however, aggressive shades of marguerites. Life here hasn't stopped for a split second, leaving what was outside the window in patient waiting. As before, a young waitress in a white apron with red hearts briskly scurries between tables, illuminating the building with a smile of pure sincerity; her heels click on a square tile, mixing with a music from an old gramophone; the fizz of burning on the pans bacon is coming from the pretty kitchen as she's opening the door, entering the holy-saints of every restaurant. As before, the visitors talk among themselves, and their ringing laughter and barely audible whisper overwhelms this stifling space, threatening to pour over the edge with colors of various emotions; here is a family that's brought their child to try the famous berry punch for the first time; a lonely girl, drawing black flowers on her palms with a marker; a couple of strangers that have literally faced a few hours ago, and, obeying obscure threads of life, celebrate their unexpected meeting.

Of course, there is also a God with his human.

Human's name is Henry Jekyll. Somewhere on the road, he seems to have lost his sunglasses and is now forced to look at the outside world with the helpless eyes of a commoner. The sand of prairies got tangled in his hair, and washing head in the diner's bathroom is a rather perilous and ungrateful business. A pendant hangs from his neck, a stupid bauble, supposedly a coyote's fang which his God has grabbed from roadside vendors. It still emanates the heat of his palms, the smell of spiced honey and light, vibrating power – a human wouldn't throw this bauble even at gunpoint, for if God leaves him, it'll be all that remains. Although it's unlikely a human will survive his leaving.

There's also a mug of hot, dark coffee standing in front of him; but Henry Jekyll's thoughts are occupied with the road ahead. Their turquoise, two-seater Ford shimmers with open windows outside, two steps from the diner, in – perhaps vain – hope to catch even a small gust of fresh air. Spending days and nights in a seemingly endless way along the hot southern desert is definitely not a test that the human's body can endure. Sometimes glares start to dance in front of Henry Jekyll's eyes, and sometimes he falls asleep right in the driver's seat; but in any case, he will _never_ confess this to his God. He will _never_ ask for an exceptional stop, _never_ close his eyes before his time, _never_ admit his weakness and obvious imperfection. The fears of the past are still corroding the valves of his heart with acid. It's unlikely that the time when he gets rid of these fears will _ever_ come.

But now, throwing a glance at the one, who sits opposite, he realizes that all this is just phantoms of the future.

The God's name is Edward Hyde. He needs a surname only among mankind, and according to his own man, it doesn't suit him at all; therefore he uses it with an ever-decreasing frequency. His outlines glow with a muffled light that penetrates inside, blowing warmth through the veins. The touch of his fingers sets an amperage in every cell of the body, pure energy, comparable, perhaps, with ten doses of adrenaline. Words slipping from his lips are lovelier than the nectar of the brightest flowers, lovelier than cinnamon crushed into fluff, and candy floss rolled onto a simple stick. Just recently, a few days ago, he was dancing, pleased, when his human bought them this very candy floss; and then swallowed both portions, (not too) guilty flapping long eyelashes. The thing between his legs was much sweeter, and therefore human quickly forgave him.

From his presence, this tiny eatery sparkles, its ceiling plays iridescent. God childishly dangles his feet under their red, cleanly washed table, singing a melody unfamiliar to human. His whole being strives farther, farther along the road under the scorching sun, farther from the west coast and towards the withered canyons with neon billboards of frightening sizes, farther and farther to the very edge of the earth. He's cheerful and tireless, his mouth is a house of smiles. His beauty cannot (and shan't) be compared with the whole Galaxy, his tears give birth to storms, and his blood is clear as the first morning dew with barely visible glitters.

When he takes a provocative look at his human, Henry smirks helplessly in response.

 

Henry Jekyll doesn't know how to give the world to someone who already has it. All that he can do seems too silly and insignificant – all kisses, touches, words. All this is fleeting and doesn't make sense, all this is just dust under fingers. But his God says:

“Sleep, I'll guard your dreams.”

And his God laughs:

“You're sweeter than strawberries.”

And his God whispers:

“I love you.”

And even if Henry Jekyll doesn't know whether he'll _ever_ be able to get rid of following fears, he has _now_. And _now_ he has more than anything. Any thing. Every thing.


End file.
